Chapter 21
Thorne
The Healer’s Pavilion, The Ember Vein Mining Camp
Delia is radiant when she smiles at me like that.
The thought is ridiculous and soft and entirely unworthy of the Lord of Fire—but it is no less true.
She stands in the center of the Healer’s Pavilion with a notebook Evonne gave to her, pen in hand, eyes bright as the older healer explains the properties of some smoking, red-veined root.
My viyella drinks in the information like flame eats dry tinder—hungry, focused, alive.
And I know I have to walk away from her.
Still, I hate it.
“I will leave you here to your lessons,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even, unhurried. “The honor guard stays with you. They will not leave this tent. You will not, either. Not until I return.”
Delia looks up at me, amusement glinting in those warm dark eyes.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I imagine it’ll take me a while to get through whatever Healer Withers has prepared for me.”
“Evonne,” the healer corrects mildly, lips twitching.
“Evonne,” Delia repeats with a grin. Then she looks back at me. “See? I’m going to be busy. Go do your world-saving stuff.”
I step closer anyway.
“Stay,” I insist quietly, letting the edge in my tone heat the air between us. “Until I return for you.”
Her smile softens. “Of course, I will.”
I should turn now.
I should go before I make a spectacle of myself in front of my people and my fellow Lords.
But then her small hand reaches for me, and I freeze in place.
“And Thorne?” she murmurs softly.
I nod. “Yes, Shula?”
“Be careful,” she says—and leans up on her toes to press a quick kiss to the corner of my mouth.
It is not nearly enough.
It is everything.
Fire roars through me at that brief contact, licking down my spine, curling around my ribs.
My hand lifts, almost of its own accord, to cradle the back of her head—but I stop myself.
Not here.
Not in front of everyone.
Instead, I bow.
Low.
Proper.
To my viyella.
A ripple goes through the Healer’s Pavilion—shock, curiosity, a little fear.
Grier ducks his head quickly, hiding his curiosity, his reaction.
That’s good. I will yet allow him to live.
The honor guard stares straight ahead, but I feel their surprise pulsing through the tent like another heartbeat.
Demon Lords do not bow.
But I do not care.
Delia has earned far more than that.
“Wait for me,” I repeat.
“Come get me when you’re through, Lord of Fire,” Delia murmurs under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear. “I’ll be right here.”
“Count on it,” I answer, letting her see it—that sliver of unguarded truth.
Then, I turn and stride out into the Broken Plains sunlight.
The flap falls closed behind me, cutting off the warm, herb-scented air of the infirmary and replacing it with the raw heat of camp.
Smoke, iron, ember.
The low rumble of mines and forges.
The rhythmic clank and hiss of pulleys, carts, and levers—Nightfall’s answer to elevators—hauling ore from the depths.
Kael and Alaric wait just beyond the pavilion, already armored in their respective magics—Kael with the scent of brine and storm clinging to him, Alaric carrying an edge of cold, sharp as a drawn blade.
“We must meet with Dagan,” I begin.
“Fuck, no, I am for home,” Alaric barks.
“No, he’s right. All of us must go to the Vein together,” Kael says, skipping pleasantries. “We will need all four Lords to reinforce the wards. The last sabotage attempt was too close.”
Kael is right.
So am I.
The Dragon Lord snarls, but we both ignore him.
Nightfall’s caves and mines are restless.
Idris has pushed harder against my borders than ever before.
The cracks in the wards are not yet fractures—but left untended, they could be.
Alaric nods after a moment.
“So be it. But we go now, my viyella is too long without me,” he growls and stomps ahead.
Kael slows his pace. He studies me from beneath heavy lashes.
“You do not wish to leave her. Believe me, it does not get easier.”
My jaw ticks.
“It is not a matter of wishing,” I say tightly. “It is a matter of necessity. The Ember Vein will not defend itself.”
Alaric pauses, and turns. He steps closer, clapping a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm enough that flames lick at my skin in reflex.
Illusion coils around him like smoke, but beneath it, I see the worry in his eyes.
“Sorry, Thorne. I forgot you’ve only had your mate a few days.”
“Feels longer,” I reply, and I know he knows what I’m feeling—this restlessness, this burning ache to be with her at all times.
They both do.
“This is what you meant, isn’t it?” I ask him, blunt, not bothering with our usual dance. “When you said your interest in Nightfall’s crown had changed. I used to think you wanted the throne of Prime above all else.”
“Yes, well, things change,” Alaric answers without hesitation.
“Family is all. The crown once meant power, order—the ultimate control. Now?” His mouth softens.
“Now it is simply another tool to keep what is mine safe. Jules is my true match in every way. The zareth between us grows every single moment. Even stretched now, with her in the Eyrie and me on the Plains, I feel it.”
Kael exhales, not quite a sigh.
“I feel the same with Phoebe,” he admits, voice threaded with awe and something gentler.
“She is in Castletide, but her pulse runs through my veins. I know when she sleeps. When she wakes. When she worries.” His gaze flicks toward the healer’s tent.
“When she laughs, the sea itself feels less heavy.”
I grunt, the sound rougher than I intend.
Because I understand.
At least, I am starting to.
The bond inside me is not just a thread now—it is a chain of molten steel, wrapped tight around my heart, tugging constantly toward the Healer’s Pavilion where Delia stands breathing, learning, existing.
Owning me.
I do not know if I want that.
When I set out for Earth, I did it with one purpose—one cold, practical aim.
To find a human woman who could be bound to me.
A vessel for the Fates to pour their boon into. A tool.
Just as Alaric originally planned, before destiny had other ideas.
We would trick the Fates, he said.
Use the bond and the boon to protect our realms, wrest the crown into steady hands, and stabilize Nightfall before it shattered completely.
It was supposed to be simple.
Instead, the Fates are laughing at me. At the three of us.
Because no, I did not bring back a tool.
I brought back Delia.
She looks at me like I am something more than a monster.
She walks into my flames and does not flinch.
She meets my jealousy with amusement instead of fear.
She sits in my pavilion, in my bed, in my world and says she wants to stay.
Trick the Fates?
Nope. Not at all.
In fact, I’m beginning to suspect we are the ones being tricked.
“Do you feel it?” Alaric asks quietly, breaking into my thoughts. “When you move away from her—the way it pulls? The way it hurts?”
My lips curl. “I am not inclined to discuss my pain, Dragon Lord.”
He snorts. “Then I will tell you, anyway. It doesn’t ease. Not truly. You simply learn to move with it. To accept that part of you is always with them.”
Kael nods once. “And they with you.”
I look between them—these two Lords who once would have burned the world for power above all else.
Now standing here in the dust of The Ember Vein, speaking of wives and unborn children and the ache of distance.
“Is this what you wanted for us?” I ask, voice low. “When you first devised your scheme, Alaric? Human mates. True zareths. Bonds that grow until they choke you.”
For a heartbeat, his illusions slip entirely.
I see the man beneath—the exhaustion, the relief, the quiet, savage joy—and I realize shockingly, I want that, too.
“No,” he says simply. “I wanted to cheat destiny and win the game.” His mouth twists. “Instead, destiny cheated me back—and handed me everything I did not know I craved.”
I hate how that resonates.
Because there is a part of me—a deep, ashamed, fiercely guarded part—that wants the same.
Wants Delia to see past the bone mask and fire and ruin. To see me and choose me still.
To stay for more than Nightfall.
To be more than a bargain.
More than a boon.
I hate how much I want it.
I hate that I am afraid I might already have it.
And more so, that I might not deserve it.
“I do not know if I want Delia to own me like this,” I admit finally, the words tasting like ash and confession. “I set out to find a mortal to bind. Nothing more. Now, I…” I exhale, watching embers spark at my fingertips and drift away. “Now I am not sure where the boon ends and she begins.”
Kael’s expression softens, surprising me. “That is how you know it is real.”
I sneer. “Real or not, it changes nothing. I still must protect The Ember Vein. I still must keep the crown from Idris’ reach. I still must ensure Nightfall does not unravel.”
“Yes,” Alaric says. “But you no longer do it alone.”
We stand there for a moment, the three of us, on the lip of the mine that feeds all dreams.
Above us, the Gemini Moon hangs heavy—half bone, half rust, casting doubled light over the camp.
Below us, the tunnels breathe with heat and magic, and danger.
Beside us, the wind shifts.
I catch it then—faint but unmistakable.
Her scent.
Ash and caramel and something new, blooming at the edge of my awareness like fresh flame.
Mine.
I square my shoulders, letting the bone mask creep just beneath my skin, ready to rise when needed. The ground trembles faintly as Dagan begins his work deeper below, shoring up the tunnels.
“Enough,” I say. “We go.”
Kael nods. Alaric flexes his fingers, silver light sparking at his knuckles.
As we step toward the great lift that will take us into the depths, I let the bond tug once more, pulling my gaze back toward the Healer’s Pavilion.
“Stay where you are, Shula,” I murmur under my breath. “Stay safe. Learn. Laugh. Wait for me.”
I feel her answer—no words, just a flare of warmth along the bond, like a hand pressed to my heart.
The Fates may be laughing.
But so help me, I will see who gets the last laugh.
Because I am Thorne, Lord of Fire, Demon Prince of the Broken Plains, Keeper of the Flame.
And now, I am also Delia’s.
Whether destiny meant for it to happen or not.